


in chaos there is calculation

by callunavulgari



Series: TW Bingo [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Aurors, F/F, M/M, Unspeakables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:57:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Allison sits. She waits. She waits long enough to start sobering up and promptly wishes she had one of Stiles’ hangover potions on hand, because that is definitely a hangover that she feels coming on. She sits long enough to realize how stupid that was, how much of a miracle it was that she didn’t splinch herself. She’s lucky that getting stuck in someone's wards was the worst that happened.</p><p>By the time there’s the click of a key at the front door, she’s mostly asleep, leaning her head against the stupid coffee table that got her into this mess. She doesn’t move, just watches as a witch lets herself inside. Her eyes go immediately to Allison as she locks the door behind her. Allison waves and says, by way of explanation, “We have the same coffee table.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	in chaos there is calculation

**Author's Note:**

> For my Teen Wolf Bingo Square: Magic. I wanted the excuse to write a wizard AU where one character accidentally apparates into the wrong house, so I used the magic square to my advantage. I also wanted to write something Allison related, because I love her desperately. I also love it when she's BFFs with Stiles. So this happened.

Allison doesn’t often indulge when it comes to debilitating substances. Her family has always taken great pride in who they are. Old, pureblood, and until recently, hunters. You can’t hunt werewolves after you’ve had a couple shots of firewhisky, it just isn’t a good idea.  
  
Beauxbatons’ policy on drinking was nearly as strict as her families, so she didn’t indulge.  
  
And then she met Stiles.  
  
Stiles Stilinski was the type of wizard that her family would have scoffed at. Practically muggleborn, because no one was entirely sure if his mother had been a witch or not, least of all him, and full to the brim of magical potential; so much, in fact, that it often came pouring out of him, whether he wanted it to or not. He was a ticking time bomb — powerful, sure, but you never knew if you’d get a lamp exploded in your face or a jelly legs curse thrown at the bad guys.  
  
When she’d first become an auror, she’d thought that being partnered to him was some kind of joke, or a test. The Argents had lost their standing when her aunt and grandfather had thrown themselves in with Voldemort and his ilk, everyone knew that. Pairing her with a muggleborn… surely it was a way to keep her on the right track, make absolute sure that she was what she said she was — that the new leader of the Argent family name wasn’t as bigoted and dangerous as the last.  
  
She learned better quickly enough. Stiles was many things, but a spy would never be one of them.  
  
And he was _good_ , she found out. He was clever and had a keen eye for strategy, and even better, had a knack for catching criminals that made her wonder several times if maybe he was a seer. No one had that many ‘gut instincts’ turn out right. No one.  
  
He’s the one who insists on going to the pub to celebrate catching the death eater they’ve been chasing since last autumn — he’s the one who plies her with drinks, a friendly arm thrown around her shoulders to ward off too friendly wizards.  
  
“I’m not trying to cockblock you or anything,” he assures her, swaying into a table and cursing as he rubs the bruise it’s left behind. “And Merlin knows you can take care of yourself. Say the word and I’ll back right off, but you—”  
  
He trails off, but she knows what he’s trying to say: Don’t seem to want a relationship right now. Aren’t great when it comes to talking to people outside of work. She knows, because it’s true. The few times that she has come out with him, she has firmly rebuked every witch or wizard to approach her. He’d noticed, of course he had, so this time, they were barely in the door before he’d caught her by the waist and pulled her over to the bar, keeping a hand on her at all times.  
  
She could fight it, because she _can_ defend herself, probably better than he could defend her. But it’s easier this way, shutting down the advances before they can even form.  
  
“It’s okay,” she tells him, tipping over into a booth. He follows her in, shoving her down the seat until she’s sitting half on a great tear in the fabric, like something with claws gauged into it. She thinks about repairing it, scrutinizing it. She runs a finger along the fabric and thinks of the charm. Then she thinks about all the pamphlets Madam McCall had given them—Stiles, mostly—on inebriated spellcasting, and decides better not.  
  
“I don’t mind it,” she clarifies, five minutes later. She has to practically shout to be heard, and she’s pretty sure she ends up lipping his ear when she leans in, but he just gives her a fond look, ruffles her hair, and calls for another round.  
  
By the time the bar is closing, she’s, as Stiles would call it, white girl wasted. She’s never been this drunk — ever. The world is a kaleidoscope of color and sound when they stumble out onto the street and she laughs, delighted, and catches a snowflake on her tongue.  
  
Technically it’s March, so the part of her that grew up in France is insisting that it should be all green leaves and blossoms already, but she forgets sometimes that the weather further north is unpredictable at best. There’s a bush on the corner of the cobblestone street, moonflowers, with wide open blossoms that catch the snow in their faintly glowing petals. She stumbles over to them and laughs again when she strokes one of the petals and it leans into her touch.  
  
Stiles is grinning when he reaches her. He’s a happy drunk — always all smiles and laughs. She’d read somewhere, that when drinking, you were always the opposite of how you were usually, but that clearly isn’t the case, because Stiles is his usual happy self, if a little clingier than usual. She likes seeing him like this. He should always be like this, because a sad Stiles is like watching unicorns get clubbed over the head, and she could do without seeing him like that for the rest of her life.  
  
“Let’s get you home, Missus Argent,” he goes, smiling softly at her, and she isn’t thinking — she’s drunk and she’s never really been drunk before, so when she straightens up, she grins brightly, chirps, “Okay!” and disapparates.  
  
She doesn’t have very long to work out why he’d look so horrified, or why he’d lunged towards her, like he was trying to catch her. She’s too busy thinking about where she wants to end up, her living room with it’s gorgeous new coffee table and—  
  
“Ow, fuck,” she hisses when she crashes into her living room, knocking her ankles and knees against the stupid, stupid coffee table that she shouldn’t have bought after all. Why the hell did she think it was a good idea to buy one made of solid oak? That was dumb, dumb, dumb.  
  
Her head thumps against the floor sharply, and it hurts, but her ear is also inches away from the edge of the fireplace, so it probably could have been worse.  
  
She gets to her feet carefully, swaying, frowning down at the throw pillows that she definitely doesn’t remember buying. The couch is new too. Literally, from the look of it. It’s all shiny maroon dragonhide, the kind that’s made to look aged and expensive, and it’s nothing like the lumpy green couch that she’d gotten second hand from the portly old wizard who works in Transportation. He’d known her grandmother back in the day, before she’d met Gerard, back when she was a happy, but incidentally pureblooded witch rather than one known for dabbling in the dark arts.  
  
She turns in a circle and frowns some more, because her fireplace has never been that big or regal. Accusing, she turns to the coffee table, as if that will be different too, but nope, it’s the same as it was when she bought it. She humphs, and then, she tries to move.  
  
And she can’t. She turns in a circle again and that seems to be fine. The house lets her turn in a circle. It lets her crouch down. It lets her lay down, so she’s sprawled across the floor the same as she was when she got here. Then she gets up, and tries to head towards the kitchen again… and nope. Can’t move.  
  
She sits down again, and glowers at the coffee table.  
  
“This is all your fault,” she accuses.  
  
.  
  
Allison sits. She waits. She waits long enough to start sobering up and promptly wishes she had one of Stiles’ hangover potions on hand, because that is definitely a hangover that she feels coming on. She sits long enough to realize how stupid that was, how much of a miracle it was that she didn’t splinch herself. She’s lucky that getting stuck in someone's wards was the worst that happened.  
  
She sits and waits, plays I Spy — the muggle game that Stiles taught her the first time they did a stake out together — with herself.  
  
The house is nothing like hers, besides for the coffee table. The floors are clean, polished, expensive looking wood. There’s a clock on the wall that reminds her of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s, only instead of all the hands being for their children, they’re for something else. She can’t make the words out, but she’s pretty sure they’re in ancient latin, and they’re not spells. Everything about the house is expensive looking, it all looks like something out of Witch Weekly, except for the old purple throw thrown over the back of the couch. If she squints, she can make out the beginnings of the kitchen — an old cauldron on the stove with something green and glowing simmering inside, and a dainty looking teacup beside the kitchen sink. There’s an enormous crystal ball next to the floo powder on the fire place. She wonders if she’s actually landed in a seer’s living room or if the inhabitant of this house just really likes divination. She wrinkles her nose at the thought. She _hates_ divination.  
  
By the time there’s the click of a key at the front door, she’s mostly asleep, leaning her head against the stupid coffee table that got her into this mess. She doesn’t move, just watches as a witch lets herself inside.  
  
The witch’s eyes go immediately to Allison as she locks the door behind her.  
  
Allison waves and says, by way of explanation, “We have the same coffee table.”  
  
The witch raises one immaculate red eyebrow, shrewd green eyes going from Allison to the coffee table she’s leaning on. “Is that so,” she says.  
  
“Yup.”  
  
The witch doesn’t really have to say anything, her expression says it all. Allison feels a flush creep across her face. “I was really drunk,” she confesses, twisting her hands in her lap.  
  
She wants to apologize, maybe even grovel a little, but the witch is looking at her like Allison is a bug she wants to squash beneath her pointy, stylish heel, and that. Allison’s not too fond of that look. She got enough of it when her and her father first moved here, back when Voldemort’s war was new enough that they were lucky not to get cursed in the streets every day.  
  
Why her father thought it was a good idea to move to the heart of the wizarding world with the name Argent attached to them in the wake of all that is beyond her, but it gave her Stiles, and back then, it gave her Scott, so she hadn’t cared too terrible much.  
  
So instead of apologizing the way she should, she lifts her chin proudly, squares her shoulders, and takes in the ministry robes still draped around the witch’s shoulders with narrowed eyes.  
  
“Who works past four in the morning anyway?” she demands haughtily, despite the fact that just yesterday her and Stiles got off of a thirty-six hour long shift.  
  
“I do, clearly,” the witch tells her, reaching down to slide off her heels. Barefoot, she looks even smaller. Standing next to Allison, she probably wouldn’t even reach her shoulders. She flexes her ankles, rotating them both twice and sighing in pleasure. She crosses the room, skirting around Allison as she goes, and vanishes into the kitchen.  
  
“Hey,” Allison shouts. “Where are you going?”  
  
“Checking on something,” the witch sing-songs back and Allison rolls her eyes, craning her neck to see the girl standing next to her potion.  
  
“Your potion is fine,” she calls, because it is. It smells like evergreens, the polish that she uses on her bow, and the river that used to flow through the backyard of the Argent manor in France. Allison’s never brewed the potion herself, but her potions instructor had. She knows what Amortentia smells like to her. “What do you even need with the most powerful love potion in the world?”  
  
“I wanted to see if I could brew it,” the witch tells her, coming back into the room, feet still bare, and sans her ministry robes. Underneath, she’s wearing muggle clothes — a floral skirt and a blue blouse that make her eyes look more blue than green. It’s odd enough, seeing a witch in muggle clothes, that Allison stares for a moment. With Stiles, she’s used to it. Everyone else, not so much. Most muggleborns these days prefer to fit in, look the part of witches and wizards. Years after Voldemort’s defeat and they’re still terrified.  
  
“Apparently you can,” Allison says after a moment, tearing her eyes away from the witch’s painted toenails. They’re pink and perfectly match the center of the roses on her skirt.  
  
The witch regards her for another moment, taking in the midnight blue robes that are still hopelessly rumpled from earlier. “Allison Argent,” the witch says softly and Allison jolts, her eyes going wide. She wants to go for her wand, fear wrapping its tendrils around her throat, but stops herself at the last second.  
  
“How do you know my name,” she hisses, making her eyes go cold. If this was some trap — some plan concocted by a butthurt death eater or a vigilante, she is going to be so furious. Even if she’s dead, Stiles will find them. She’s traceable and Stiles is so many things, so so many, but he’s powerful and _stubborn_ , and is also best friends with her ex, who could literally sniff her out.  
  
The witch gives her another one of those looks, condescending and so judgemental that Allison could claw her eyes out, like _she’s_ being stupid.  
  
“I’m a seer, idiot,” she says instead. Allison blinks.  
  
“Oh,” she goes. Then, “Well, are you going to let me out?”  
  
.  
  
They’re chatting on the witch’s—Lydia, apparently—couch when Stiles starts pounding at her door. He sounds frantic, shouting her name in between threats to blow down the door. Lydia looks at her, and asks, “Boyfriend?”  
  
Allison smiles, rolling to her feet and stretching. The sun is starting to come in through the windows, and she’s currently at that level of sleep deprived that means she’s either going to need a pepper up potion stat or she’s going to crash where she stands. “Worse,” she answers, crossing the room to the door. “Partner.”  
  
Stiles is flushed red, mid-shout when she opens the door. The robes he’d been wearing are nowhere to be found, but the graphic t-shirt he’d had on under it is rumpled, his hair every which way like he’s been running his fingers through it.  
  
“Allison,” he gasps, and lunges forward, wrapping her in a huge hug that does nothing to disguise the way he’s not-so-subtly patting her down for injuries. When he pulls back, there’s a glimmer of anger in his eyes that she rarely sees directed her way. He usually reserves that for apprehending criminals, because despite what some may think, he’s better than she is at playing bad cop. “Don’t ever do that again, jesus.”  
  
She smiles at him, rubbing his shoulder soothingly. “It’s okay,” she tells him. “I didn’t splinch myself. Just got caught in Ms. Martin’s wards for a few hours.”  
  
Allison is almost expecting Scott to be hovering over Stiles’ shoulder, so when she looks, she’s surprised to see Derek Hale.  
  
He nods at her, quiet as ever, and she nods back.  
  
They have a truce — her and Derek, not the Argents and Derek, though at this point, it’s kind of the same thing since it’s just her, her dad, and a couple distant cousins in France left — and it works for them. He knows her well enough to respect her, even if he doesn’t particularly like her, and she knows that he’s a good guy. He goes furry once a month and is part of her exes pack, but he didn’t deserve what her aunt did to him. None of the Hales did. They don’t talk about it, they help each other out, and they bond over Stiles.  
  
Lydia and Stiles are arguing about something when she tears her gaze away from the werewolf still hovering awkwardly on Lydia’s stoop.  
  
“C’mon, Stiles,” she calls. “Lydia’s tired and so am I. Let’s get out of her hair.”  
  
Stiles narrows his eyes at Lydia, like he thinks she’s done something to Allison, but no, Lydia just looks exhausted. Allison’s been talking to her for at least half an hour, so she knows that Lydia works in the Ministry — probably as an Unspeakable if the way she’d gotten so cagey about it was any indication — and has been on her feet all day. She doesn’t know much more; Lydia’s an only child, she has banshee blood in her, and she found out she was a seer when she was thirteen.  
  
She beckons again, waves goodbye to Lydia, and this time, lets Derek apparate her and Stiles back to her place, where they all crash on her bed. It should be awkward, because she’s barely exchanged words with Derek, but he smells like Scott, like the pack she used to be a part of, and anyway, he’s mostly snuggling Stiles anyway, so she doesn’t give two shits if it’s his or Stiles’ hand tangled in her hair. She falls asleep easily.  
  
.  
  
Deaton gives her and Stiles four days off — four glorious days that she spends walking around her house half naked and using magic for the most simple tasks. It feels good, being lazy, and on the third day, she lets Stiles bring his tv over and they marathon Firefly while eating sweet, greasy muggle junk food.  
  
On the fourth day, her dad floos her, and they discuss her going over to the family manor for the spring equinox. She fights him about it, but in the end, she caves. There are some traditions that aren’t worth giving up, and even if her and her dad don’t see eye to eye, she loves him. He’s a good man, had testified against his father and sister after the Hale fire, after everything.  
  
And he hadn’t pressed charges against Derek when he’d saved Scott from Allison’s mom, who had tried to kill him with some wolfsbane and a vaporizer.  
  
They don’t talk about that either, or how Allison had kind of gone off the deep end afterward.  
  
When she ends up back at work on Thursday, she’s relaxed in a way she hasn’t been in a long time. She actually smiles at people in the office, which makes Stiles give her a look, and ask her flatly if she’s a changeling.  
  
“I’m not a changeling, Stiles,” she tells him, stealing a chocolate frog from his desk as she passes.  
  
“You could be something else,” he tells her mutinously. “There are other things out there. You could be some creepy guy with a vial of Polyjuice.”  
  
“Not a polyjuiced creeper either, Stiles.”  
  
“But you’re smiling,” he whines, flopping down on his desk and giving her puppy dog eyes. “At work!”  
  
She grins back at him, dropping into her chair and biting the head off of the frog. She blinks down at the card she’s gotten, unsurprised to see an eleven year old Harry Potter shyly smiling back at her. She has at least twenty of him. At least. The only one she has more of is Dumbledore.  
  
“I had a good couple of days, that’s all.”  
  
He eyes her suspiciously, but when she just shrugs sheepishly at him, he lets out a huge, disgusted sigh, and gives up.  
  
They’re on paperwork duty today, and probably will be for at least another two. There’s a lot of reports to file when you bring in a death eater that’s been wanted for a decade. A lot. By lunchtime, her eyes are starting to feel like they’re bleeding, and her hand is cramping up.  
  
Derek swings by and steals Stiles’ from her for lunch. They both invite her, of course, but she’s not an idiot. Even if she was blind to the looks they throw each other when they think she’s not looking, she would have to be completely braindead to miss the way they were curled together the morning after the drunken apparating incident. She lets them go.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, there’s a knock at her door.  
  
She glances up, halfway through biting into an apple, and pauses, because Lydia is smirking at her, hip propped up against Allison’s doorway. She’s in bottle green robes that are cut higher than ministry regulations strictly allow, but Allison has a feeling that no one is going to stop her. Her heels are just as tall and vicious looking and she’s got some kind of glossy peach lipstick smeared across her mouth. Her hair is perfectly coifed and she lets herself in before Allison can say anything, sliding up to perch daintily on the edge of Allison’s desk. Her robes ride up creamy thighs and Allison looks away, blushing.  
  
“Lydia,” Allison says, tone caught somewhere between pleased and wary.  
  
The other woman smiles at her. It should be pleasant, but on Lydia, it just looks predatory. When she leans closer, Allison catches a whiff of her perfume, which is flowery and subtle, but beneath that, there’s another smell — wispy thin like smoke. It reminds her, oddly, of death. She thinks about the rumors that got out after Harry Potter and his friends tore through the Department of Mysteries all those years ago, about the room he’d lost his godfather in, how he’d described it afterward, much to chagrin of the current minister. A room of death, deep within the Department of Mysteries.  
  
Allison would have figured Lydia more for the Hall of Prophecies, what with her being a seer, but it makes a strange amount of sense, with her banshee blood. All the better to hear the whispers from beyond the veil.  
  
“I thought we could do lunch,” Lydia’s saying, her voice snapping Allison out of her musings.  
  
Allison blinks at her, eyes going to Lydia’s lips, which are still holding onto that terribly attractive smirk, and then to her eyes, which are amused and knowing. “You haven’t slipped amortentia into the water supply, have you?” Allison blurts in a panic and then squirms when Lydia pins her with a look.  
  
“I don’t need to,” Lydia tells her, sweetly. She hops off the desk, a bounce in her step, and turns a bright grin on Allison, blinding and beautiful, and nothing like her smirk. “So, are you coming?”  
  
Allison doesn’t trust her voice, so she just nods.  



End file.
